


Memories

by supernovae



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M, POV Carlos (Welcome to Night Vale), Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 10:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernovae/pseuds/supernovae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos has always been different.</p><p>------</p><p>(mostly just Carlos's experiences as a DFAB trans man, hardly any cecilos, so yeah)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories

For as long as he can remember, Carlos knows he has never fit in. 

He remembers being called “Charlotte” and “she” and being confused and upset, and he remembers the confused and upset looks on people’s faces when he attempted to explain that he was not a girl. He remembers how much that stung, and how frustrating it was that people just wouldn’t understand; he wasn't a girl, he just looked like one for some reason. He remembers being too "boyish" for the girls, and not "boyish" enough for the boys. He remembers being isolated at playtime, and instead surrounding himself with books. He remembers the thrill that knowledge gives him, knowledge that extends beyond fingerpainting and state capitals. He remembers trying to stand up to pee like the other boys, and naturally, making a mess all over the floor. He remembers the exasperated look on his teacher’s face when she found out, and the way she sighed when Carlos (for the millionth time) explained that he just wanted to pee like the other boys. He remembers the hushed tones in which his teacher and his mother conversed when his mother came to pick him up from school. He remembers the silence in the car on the way home, the way his father drags him out of bed later that night to yell at him, to attempt to beat femininity into him.

And it worked, in a way. He remembers wearing dresses and short shorts and tight shirts that showed off the lumps of fat on his chest that didn’t belong there. He remembers pulling at his waist-length hair and wishing it would disappear. He remembers the catcalls from the boys and the girls alike, and wishing that he would just disappear. He remembers the first girlfriend he had, and the second, but most of all he remembers the third, who was the first that he truly loved, and the first that he came out to as trans, and the first to truly break his heart. He remembers the way she had said that she could love her, but she just couldn’t find it in herself to love him, and he remembers wondering why it would matter.

He remembers discovering the thrill that discovering new things gave him. He remembers vowing never to dedicate himself to anyone but science from then on. He remembers the preemptive aching sense of loneliness that accompanied that vow. He remembers ignoring that. He remembers being made fun of for his love for science, for being a geek, a nerd, a weirdo, a loser, a dyke. (Though "dyke" only made him roll his eyes; he was a straight male.) He remembers ignoring all the insults. He remembers the ignoring never really working.

He remembers the sweet taste of freedom when he went off to college. He remembers putting his name down as Carlos for the first time, and making a check in the little box that marked him as male. He remembers the hair clippings on the bathroom floor the night he decided to finally cut the long hair he so hated. He remembers going to his doctor, watching him write a prescription for testosterone injections, going to the pharmacy and receiving the small paper bag in shaking hands. He remembers wondering if the bored-looking girl who filled his prescription knew how much she has changed his life. He remembers his first injection. He remembers his second. He remembers his third, his fourth, his fifth, every single one until it became routine and he lost track. He remembers seeing progress within the first few months. He remembers feeling his newly strong jawline, the soft wispy hair sprouting from his arms and legs and armpits and face, speaking just to hear the drop in pitch. He remembers the day that marked his first six months on T being one of the happiest days of his life.

He remembers making real friends for the first time, people like him, people who know how he feels, people who are friends with him only because he is trans, like them. He remembers being dragged to meetings and groups by his friends, where he would sit in the corner awkwardly balancing a plate of crappy grocery store cookies and lemonade while everyone else shared stories, chanted affirmations, shed tears. He remembers wishing that he could just be treated normally, like a person, not like a transperson. He knew that he was a trans person, but he wished that it wasn't all that people saw of him.

He remembers graduation as uneventful. He remembers attending parties, but never having one of his own. He remembers heading straight off into the real world to intern in a laboratory, slowly and surely losing touch with his friends and the rest of the outside world as he became more and more absorbed in his lab work. He remembers the day that he was sent on a mission of his own, to investigate a small desert town called Night Vale. He remembers thinking that this was going to be a boring rookie mission, where he would head to the town, collect some acidic soil samples, then head back. (But oh, how wrong he was.)

He remembers driving through the endless desert with his team, squinting through the harsh glare, failing to find the town all through the day. He remembers the sun setting, and he remembers almost telling his team to start heading back. And then he remembers the lights. The fantastic, glowing lights that would creep their way into his heart and ensnare themselves in his ribcage over the next year. He remembers the stars, and he remembers not remembering the last time he had seen them so bright, or in fact, the last time he had seen them at all. He remembers slowly getting back in his car and driving toward the lights, as if propelled by forces unknown.

He remembers waking up the next morning, unsure of where he is for the first few minutes, then remembering the mission, the previous night, the lights. He remembers turning the radio on and being startled when he hears his own name, and even more startled when the smooth, mellifluous voice declared its love for him.

He does not remember much of the next few months; they are blurred into a mosaic, with a few details sticking out; a stranger in a tan jacket, a white man wearing a cartoonishly racist Indian headdress, watches and clocks filled with strange substances, ethereal beings that everyone calls angels (which twisted Carlos' science-based mind, as did everything else in Night Vale) all the various strange happenings that slowly became less strange to him as time progressed. It is the first place that he has ever really felt normal; ironically so, as Night Vale is possibly the least normal place on earth. He does remember the radio announcer, whose name is Cecil, and who, for some reason, is relentlessly obsessed with Carlos. He remembers hearing his name on the radio almost constantly for the next few months. He remembers not knowing how to feel about it.

He remembers being weirded out by him at first, as with everything in Night Vale. But as with everything in Night Vale, slowly, surely, Carlos came to love him. Slowly, Carlos started to remember everything about Cecil: the way his pupils would dilate (so much that his eyes appeared completely black) when Carlos was around, the way he construed everything Carlos said to him as an indication of his feelings, the change in his tone of voice whenever he would talk about Carlos on the radio, the way you could see every single one of his pointy teeth when he smiled, the way his tattoos seemed to change every time Carlos looked at him (he could swear he's even seen them moving before), and a million other seemingly insignificant details. But they were what made Cecil so uniquely Cecil, and Carlos had come to value every single atom that made up Cecil's body.

He can't remember when he first knew he had feelings for Cecil. He does remember several times where his heart leapt when Cecil mentioned him on the radio, and he would lecture himself. Carlos, you are a straight male. Straight. Male. But that was before he came to Night Vale and everything he thought he knew about the world was destroyed. And one night, as he was lecturing himself once again, he remembered the third girlfriend he had had. The one he had loved so, the one who had broken his heart because of something so insignificant as his gender. And he remembered wondering why it would matter when they were so in love. And he realized that it didn't matter whatsoever.

He remembers telling himself the next day that he would work up the courage to talk to Cecil. He remembers being called by a member of his team and summoned to the bowling alley. He remembers the sight of a small cavern in the back of lane six, a spiraling tower only as high as his waist, an army of tiny people. He remembers telling the people of Night Vale that they have nothing to fear. He remembers excruciating pain in that same instance. He remembers the blood, oh all the blood on the floor, was it really his? He remembers the angels that he had sometimes seen around town suddenly appearing, closing in on him, his mind twisted with fear and confusion and regret. He remembers blackness. Then he remembers the world coming slowly into focus again, and the body of the white guy with the cartoonishly racist Native American headdress next to him, and the first thought he had: "Cecil."

He remembers the lights above the Arby's. He remembers the warmth of the hood of his car. He remembers the warmth of Cecil's hand. And he knows now that even when his mission is over, he will never leave Night Vale. For he has never felt more at home than right here, right now; Cecil's hand in his, the strange colorful lights above the Arby's paling in comparison to the beauty of them together, at last, the beauty of this feeling of being home at last.


End file.
